


Full Stops and Exclamation Marks

by anythingbutblue



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/pseuds/anythingbutblue
Summary: Post-Azure Moon.  Edelgard doesn't give up so easily and Dimitri has always had a thing for ghosts.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32
Collections: Dimigard Week





	Full Stops and Exclamation Marks

For days she's only a flash of crimson in the corner of his eye, a scarlet wisp on the edge of his vision. He can't stop himself from turning when he glimpses her, no matter how many glances his friends exchange. No matter how Dedue's lips press together in unspoken concern. No matter how it looks to anyone.

Slowly she gains shape and he can't ignore her. He doesn't even truly wish he could. It was difficult to strike her down, and it would have been regardless of how many times she forced his hand. Among the dead she demands her due.

As days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months he watches her learn and manifest and master her limitations with mingled concern and delight. A puff of her nonexistent breath blows out a candle, the pressure of her ghostly hand forces open doors closed, the sound of her sigh makes those who cannot see her as well glance up from their task. He almost wishes he could tell someone but there are too many reasons not to breathe a word of her. Just as he once found himself self-consciously biting back a dozen questions he had for a pale-haired Edelgard who didn't know him at the Academy, he now swallows countless thoughts about her.

He would have preferred for her to take his offered hand and work with him toward the brighter future she pursued so doggedly, but when he wakes abruptly one night to a heaviness in his chest and cool slender fingers on his throat it only takes him a moment to open his eyes and decide there is nothing that could happen with her on top of him that could scare him. Kill him, kiss him: at this point the prospect of having her do either somehow feels like more than he deserves. 

It had taken him so long to get to sleep at all and his mind tries to race through the fog of sleep. Her grip is weaker than it would have been in life but her touch is more solid than it's been, her weight substantial enough that his body _responds_ and he feels a flare of shame in his chest. There is a sharp reminder of the girl he once knew in the unhappy twist of her mouth as she stares down at him. It makes his heart ache. There are so many things he wants to say but the only thing to tumble clumsily from his lips is an apology. _I'm sorry, El_ , he whispers, and he hates how small it sounds compared to how he feels. 

When her mouth moves he can't make out a word she says. Her voice is too faint, as though called out over a great distance. Frustration storms in the lavender of her eyes, his inability to hear her one more injustice, and for a long moment he thinks that this is it. This is what finally kills him.

Then her forehead touches his.

***

The more she tries to speak to him, the clearer she sounds.

Conversations held only in the dark of night turn into quiet commentary throughout the day. She has little use for etiquette in death, and once she has her full voice she never hesitates to make her feelings known, every last skeptical hum and pleased laugh. By night she occupies a spot across his bed from him, her body above blankets and furs and his below, and tells him countless things he did not know -- could not have known -- about insurrection and captivity, her once large family, the people who have manipulated both her life and his, even about Lady Rhea. She makes suggestions when he meets with guilds, she advises him in solving disputes as he corresponds with former Alliance leaders, she scrutinizes their former Professor every time he visits in his new capacity as Archbishop, she navigates him through diplomatic visits with all the keen and careful prowess of a feline on the hunt. 

It isn't for his sake, she insists, and he knows that. She wants something better for everyone and he wants that as well. She makes a fine advisor.

But if he also lives for every small laugh he hears from her, if he sometimes forgets to breathe when he watches her, if he finds it easier to fall asleep with her lingering nearby... well, hopefully she can forgive it.

***

As his birthday approaches he insists that what he wants most is a lighter schedule for the day so he can attend to less traditional kingly duties, ones that allow him to be a better friend to those whose support has kept him afloat, ones that let him forget who he is for a day and lose himself in other people.

Except he can't seem to lose himself entirely because Edelgard is so often there, a prickle along the back of his neck, a point his eyes keep returning to in spite of his best effort. He catches her admiring the biggest red blooms in the garden, critiquing his form as he spars, hiding a smile as he befriends a stray cat. When he is given a generous slice of birthday cake with his dinner that evening he takes it to his chamber because, for better or for worse, he knows the ghost who haunts him most vibrantly. Once upon a time he enjoyed few things as much as sharing sweets with her.

She is at the window when he enters, only turning when she hears him close the door behind him. She looks from the small tray in his hands, the cake and fork, then back to his face. "Ah. A treat for the King on his birthday."

"I want to try something, El."

Her eyebrows arch. It's encouraging to see that ghosts can still be taken by surprise. 

"You move inanimate objects all the time," he continues as he puts the tray down on his table and folds his long body into the nearest chair. "I think you should try to move my hand." Two fingers on his right hand rise. "This hand."

The delicate arch of her eyebrows creases. "Dimitri, this is a pointless exercise."

"I don't think it is." He picks up the fork, gentle temptation. "Move my hand to the cake. Please."

His polite _please_ makes her mouth quirk, although he's uncertain if it's closer to amusement or irritation. Either way, she moves to his side and places a hand on his, her forearm aligned with his, fingers wrapping around his wrist. Her touch is so soft, a pleasantly cool tingle, and he does his best to stay relaxed and pliant, his arm half-bent on the table. 

The moment stretches long enough that he feels a hint of warmth in his cheeks, but then his forearm rises under her guidance. Once the tines of the fork sink into the cake she turns on him with a look of wide-eyed surprise, so far from displeasure that it nearly knocks the breath from him. It feels monumental, like the first night she woke him, the first day he heard her clearly. As she releases his arm, he lifts his forkful of cake to his mouth.

Something like wonder persists in her eyes, tempered by wistfulness. "What does it taste like?"

He wishes he could tell her with certainty. He wishes he could describe more than its texture for her, that he could wield words as well as he can a lance.

"Lemon and mint, or so I am told." He is not a gifted liar. Even at make-believe when they were children she outpaced him. "My sense of taste left me years ago, but I can tell you what I think it should be like. My imagination remains intact."

Surprise flickers across her features again, a twinge of quiet empathy as her head tips. 

"I never knew." Slowly, she pulls out the chair across from him. "But yes, Dimitri, I would enjoy that very much."


End file.
